


Of Locked Doors & Thunderstorms

by IanRightsOnly



Series: Desires & Wildflowers [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Kissing in the Rain, M/M, Manhandling, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:22:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25087606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IanRightsOnly/pseuds/IanRightsOnly
Summary: In which Mickey discovers that dirty talk results in manhandling, and finds that kissing in the rain makes him weak in the knees.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Desires & Wildflowers [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1816369
Comments: 59
Kudos: 504





	Of Locked Doors & Thunderstorms

**Author's Note:**

> I decided to turn this into a series, that I may update whenever I get ideas :)
> 
> This fic can definitely be read as a stand-alone, but takes place in the same verse as [Of Slip 'N Slides & Dumbass Distractions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24246631), about a month and a half later. 
> 
> The first story was written from Ian's POV (in a slightly different style), and this one is written from Mickey's.
> 
> I have this fic rated and tagged appropriately, but I *would* consider it to be more explicit than the first.  
> If that's not your thing, this probably isn't for you—just as a friendly FYI.

It’s late August when Lip proposes the idea of a camping trip, as the topic comes up over coffee on a rainy Monday morning.

Mickey didn’t exactly grow up in a _camping_ kind of household. Or a vacation kind of household, for that matter. Of course, that isn’t taking into account the few times that Terry dragged Mickey into the woods in the midst of a drug heist, leaving him to fend for himself with his younger sister in a dingy, worn out tent. 

He was about nine or ten years old, probably.

Those years were an absolute fucking shitshow, and probably the most tumultuous of Mickey’s childhood, as he started to recognize what kind of person his father truly was.

He was growing up fast, faster than any kid should ever have to, while also trying to look out for Mandy, too. And no, it wasn’t _really_ camping, but Mickey still did his best to make it fun. 

And he managed, somehow. 

They swam in the lake, roasted marshmallows, and told scary stories around a makeshift bonfire. The memories fill Mickey with a wistful kind of nostalgia, and that’s what he chooses to focus on when he thinks back on them, now.

And so, when Lip mentions a camping trip, those memories flutter vaguely back into the forefront of his mind. Except this time, Mickey isn’t a kid anymore. This time, Mickey won’t be left to his own devices while his father abandons him in the thick of the woods. 

Mickey thinks it could be fun, maybe. 

But only on his terms. 

He’s sitting at the kitchen counter, sipping on his coffee while Lip discusses the details. 

It’s a step up from actualcamping, with tents and sleeping bags and shit, because Tami’s family owns a cabin near Lake Michigan and Mickey knows that shit certainly isn’t cheap. 

Ian is sitting across from Mickey, clearly intrigued as he listens to Lip, who has busied himself with pouring his own cup of coffee. Mickey raises his eyebrows as he looks between them.

He has some fucking demands, and before this discussion goes any further, he needs to make them fucking known. 

“Yeah, sure. I’ll go,” Mickey begins, his tone rather haughty. “But not with an army of Gallaghers attached to my fuckin’ hip.”

Ian purses his lips, sharing a brief glance with Lip as he sets his coffee mug on the counter.

“You wanna go alone?” Ian asks, an eyebrow raised. “I mean, like, just you and me?”

Mickey nods. Just Ian and himself. No fucking children, no fucking siblings-in-law. 

Alone, with Ian and some goddamn fucking privacy. 

“Yeah, Mickey. That sounds great,” Lip says, snidely. “ _Except_ —in what world do you think Tami would offer up her family’s cabin to you?” 

Mickey shrugs. “In my world, Phillip.”

“Right,” Lip sighs, turning his attention back to Ian. “Well, the rest of us are leaving this weekend. So. If you can convince your husband to change his mind and step out of _his_ world for a week, the invite is there.”

Ian nods, a somewhat pensive look on his face. 

If he thinks he’s going to convince Mickey otherwise, he’s fucking dreaming.

“Not gonna change my mind,” Mickey grumbles.

And he fucking means it. 

* * *

Mickey doesn’t actually _mind_ living with the Gallaghers, if he’s being completely, wholeheartedly honest with himself. He has definitely felt a certain degree of belonging, ever since he moved back into their crowded North Wallace home. 

Of course, even more so, once he very resolutely chose to marry one of them. 

And, yeah, fucking fine— _maybe_ he also chose to take their last name.

But when Mickey bitches about _the fucking Gallaghers,_ he sure as fuck isn’t talking about himself. 

Ian teases him about it sometimes, though; calls him _Gallagher_ in a bemused, taunting way when he’s trying to get Mickey’s attention.

And sometimes, quite frankly, he does it just to fucking annoy him.

It’s not _always_ annoying, though. Sometimes, Mickey really sort of likes it. And Ian fucking loves it—the fact that Mickey took his last name.

“It feels like you’re a part of me,“ Ian tells him on Tuesday night, speaking softly into his ear while they’re lying in bed. “Now that you’re a Gallagher _,_ I mean.”

Mickey smiles, because yeah, _sue him,_ but he fucking loves this shit. He loves the sweet words whispered between them when the lights go off, and he’s still in disbelief, most of the time, that this is actually his life. 

Ian is lying half on top of him, head resting between Mickey’s chest and shoulder as Mickey combs his fingers through Ian’s hair. 

“Kinda always been a part of you,” Mickey says, using his other hand to play with Ian’s fingers. “Like havin’ your name, though.”

Sappy. They’re so fucking sappy, but they’re _married,_ and they’re allowed to be as sappy as they fucking want to be, for the rest of their lives. 

They’ve earned it, Mickey thinks.

"Yeah?” Ian lifts his head up from Mickey’s chest, kissing him gently on the lips.

Just one kiss, gentle and loving, before he pulls back to meet Mickey’s eyes with a lazy smile.

“Don’t let it go to your fuckin’ head or anything,” Mickey says.

“What?” Ian raises an eyebrow. “The fact that you married me, or the fact that you actually like being a _Gallagher?”_

Mickey feels his cheeks heat up, just a little.

And it’s not like he’s embarrassed—he’s _not_ —but Ian has this way about him, sometimes. He likes to tease and he likes to get playful, and it always spreads a comfortable warmth through Mickey, leaving his cheeks tinged pink and his skin feeling tingly. 

Ian gets that look in his eyes, then. Kind of dazed, kind of hooded. They flutter from Mickey’s eyes down to his lips, and back up again. Mickey mirrors him, not even on purpose, and then Ian is leaning back down and kissing him. 

Kissing him, and _kissing him._ Ian’s kisses are made of love and passion. Sometimes sweet, sometimes spicy _._ And when it’s like this; when it’s the two of them, privately, _passionately,_ it feels like every good feeling that Mickey has ever fucking felt in his entire life, all molded together into one. And Mickey fucking loves him. 

And it’s not surprising, really, when their kisses turn breathless, as their bodies become one. As Ian sinks into Mickey with a heavy sigh, rocking down against him, pushing and pulling, giving and taking. As Mickey struggles to keep his voice down, as his hands grip onto Ian’s hair, as they drag up and down his back. As they kiss, as they touch, as they love. 

As Ian gasps, “ _Love you, love you,”_ against Mickey’s lips, as Mickey’s head falls back, as Ian pushes them both over the edge. 

* * *

Mickey loves Ian, and Mickey _likes_ being a Gallagher, but sometimes, Mickey just wants some goddamn fucking privacy. 

_Real_ fucking privacy.

And he doesn’t think that’s unreasonable. 

He’s sort of craving it, now; that different kind of intimacy that comes from being really and truly alone, with more than just a flimsy fucking accordion door separating them from a house full of people. 

He wants to be _alone_ with Ian, in a big fucking bed, free to do whatever, whenever. 

Free to be loud, free to be raw. 

Just. Fucking _alone._

Because, even though Mickey was fucking _quiet_ last night, he still had Carl bitching at him earlier this fucking morning. About how he’s sick of hearing their sounds, sick of hearing their rickety, old bed, sick of hearing them, period.

And like—maybe if Carl could get fucking _laid_ he wouldn’t be so goddamn fucking crabby, but _Jesus._ Can Mickey fuck his husband in peace, _ever,_ without getting bitched at?

It’s irritating. It’s so fucking irritating, and Mickey gets it, because they’re not ready to get their own place and that’s okay. They’re working on it, they’ll fucking get there, but meanwhile—it’s still a pain in Mickey’s motherfucking ass.

It’s not like they really have the money for weekend getaways; at least not when they’re trying to save for a place of their own. Which feels like a catch-22, sort of. 

They manage, sometimes, although it’s been about a month and a half since they last had an _actual_ night alone. But, that night alone was a well-deserved fucking reward after nearly a full fucking week of no sex. Because they’re good babysitters, for fuck’s sake.

And, yeah. That shit had been real fucking good. It was just one night, but it was _enough._

At least, if _nothing_ else, the Gallagher house should be mostly empty, if they all fuck off to Michigan for a few days.

* * *

It’s Thursday afternoon, later that same week, when Mickey agrees to pick up a shift at the Alibi. He’s fucking bored, and the bar is dead, and he’s on his third beer because he has nothing fucking better to do. And as long as he’s fucking working here, he’s at least going to take advantage of it. 

The bar is, quite literally, empty. It’s only three o’clock, but even its _regular_ regulars seem to have better shit to do today. It’s a fucking waste of Mickey’s time, and he’s about to send Kev an irritated text message when he hears the familiar creak of the door opening.

“Hey, Barkeep. What’s it gonna take to get some fucking service in this place?”

And it’s Ian, naturally. He sits on the stool directly across from Mickey and smiles, expectantly.

“Ha-ha, _funny,_ ” Mickey fake-laughs, automatically cracking open a beer for him. “For starters, a fuckin’ attitude adjustment.”

Ian grins. He sits up to hover over the counter, just far enough to snatch the beer out of Mickey’s hand. 

“Well, that’s insulting,” Ian frowns. “Even though I brought you _this?_ ” He drops a key on the counter and raises his eyebrows, waiting for some kind of reaction.

Mickey stares at it, blankly, before looking back at Ian for an explanation.

“The fuck is this?” Mickey finally asks. He picks it up and stares at it for a moment, but it doesn’t look familiar.

“It’s the key to Tami’s cabin,” Ian says with a rather shit-eating grin. “And this is the part where _you_ say, ‘ _Thank you_ , _husband_.’”

Mickey chuckles. “Thanks, _husband._ You fuckin’ steal these, or what?”

“I didn’t _steal_ them, Mick. I’m just—persuasive.”

“Persuasive, how? Lip looked at me like I had five fuckin’ heads when I suggested it.”

Ian shrugs, taking a sip of his beer. “Well, for starters, it’s gonna rain all weekend.”

Mickey waits for Ian to elaborate, holding up his hands to make a ‘ _so fucking what?’_ kind of gesture. 

“ _So,_ everyone wants to wait until next week, instead. When the weather’s gonna be nice.”

“The fuck do I care if it rains?” Mickey asks. “Wasn’t plannin’ on gettin’ a fuckin’ tan.” 

“Exactly. We _don’t_ fucking care if it rains. _And,_ if Tami lets us go for a long weekend, she won’t have to deal with _you_ next week.”

“She woulda never dealt with me anyway, ‘cause I _told you,_ I wasn’t goin’ with them.”

“Yeah, and I told _them_ that you changed your mind. I just—bent the truth, and made some suggestions. Like, two separate trips, for example.”

And okay, that was clever, really. Because if Lip and Tami have the option of going _with_ them vs. offering for them go alone—they’re gonna let them go alone.

It’s not that they don’t get along. It’s just. Everything, and everyone, in moderation.

“So—” Mickey trails off, smirking as Ian hops down from the bar stool. 

Ian meets Mickey behind the bar, then, settling his hands on Mickey’s hips. “ _So,_ we can go tonight, and stay ‘til Monday. Unless you’re too fucking busy with all of your customers.”

“Yeah, right. Fuck that shit. There might be some drunk bastard passed out on the bathroom floor—but that ain’t my problem.”

“Huh,” Ian mumbles. “Could be Frank. Haven’t seen him in a while.”

“Don’t care, didn’t check,” Mickey says. He reaches down to grab Ian’s wrists, pulling them away from his hips with a knowing, _knowing_ grin. 

It’s both an implication and a promise, as he pushes gently at Ian’s shoulders, nodding his head towards the door. 

“After you,” Ian offers, holding up the hinged section of the bar counter for Mickey to go first.

Mickey grabs the key, tossing it back for Ian to catch.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here, Gallagher.”

* * *

As far as long weekend getaways go, this one ends up being pretty fucking perfect. The cabin is cozy, simple, and it’s got everything they need. 

And, most importantly, they’re alone. 

It’s been a lazy Saturday, with a little bit of sex, a little bit of napping, and a lot of lounging in bed. 

They’re naked, comfy, relaxed _._ They’re alone together, just _being_ together, and it’s good for them. To focus on each other, to enjoy the intimacy, to not have interruptions.

And, it’s fun. Because they have so much fucking fun together, always. Cooking together, drinking together, watching movies together. Cuddling on the couch, fighting over the remote; as wrestling turns into kissing, as kissing ignites a fire.

The rest of the fucking Gallaghers can say whatever the fuck they want about Mickey _not wanting to be social._ But nobody can even sort of convince him that this idea wasn’t so, so much better. 

Mickey can hear that it’s pouring outside, as the rain works to temper the humid summer air. It’s soothing, peaceful, comforting; with Ian’s arms holding him close.

Their sleep schedule is fucked—offset by two days of late nights and afternoon naps, but it’s worth it. 

Even if it means waking up at ten o’clock at night. 

Mickey yawns, drowsy but waking up quickly, as he turns over in Ian’s arms. He finds that Ian is already awake, watching him with a sleepy grin.

Which is not exactly unexpected. Ian has always had a major fucking staring problem. 

Mickey doesn’t hate it. 

He touches a hand to Ian’s face, softly, and says, “The fuck’re you starin’ at, you fuckin’ creep?”

Because, really, Ian is being fucking creepy. But Ian’s smile widens, and he’s absolutely unfazed.

“You—you’ve been asleep for two hours, dear husband, and I’m _bored.”_

Bored. Fucking _bored_. Mickey gave Ian a blowjob in the shower about three hours ago, after an even earlier slow, simmering fuck. 

He has no fucking right to be _bored._

“Oh, you’re bored, huh?” Mickey leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Ian’s lips. “Am I not paying enough attention to you?” 

Another kiss, a little bit harder.

Ian pulls back, a pathetic pout on his face. “Not when you’re _sleeping_.”

“M’on vacation. I’ll sleep if I fuckin wanna sleep.”

Ian holds the back of Mickey’s neck with both hands. “You wanna go back to sleep?”

Mickey sighs, pretends to think. Thunder roars in the distance as the rain continues to fall, and it’s funny—the way the air between them kind of feels like lightning.

He shakes his head _,_ settling in closer to Ian’s body, lying half on top of him. They remain quiet for a while, just resting together, listening to the steady downpour of rain. 

And then, Mickey starts thinking. 

Ian is running a hand up and down Mickey’s arm, heat radiating from his body, and Mickey starts _wanting._

It’s been good, the last few days. Lazy fucks in the morning, making out on the couch in the afternoon. And they’ve been getting _romantic_ at night—with gentle touches and slow build ups, with sensual whispers and languid kisses.

Mickey loves it. He fucking loves it, and they’ve been into that shit lately. Fucking lovemaking, or _whatever_ people call it. It’s good, it’s so good.

Because they’re _good at it._ Loving each other, showing each other, they’re fucking good at it. 

But they’re good at a lot of things, and they’ve fucked in a lot of ways, over the years.

And, okay, they’re into some shit. Beyond _romance_ and _lovemaking_ , they’re into some shit. 

Ian has his thigh thing—whatever it is—the way Mickey’s thighs seem to turn him the fuck on. The way he likes to bite and grab and _fuck_ against them until he comes. And they don’t do it a lot, not really. It needs to be a certain kind of mood, when they’re alone and playful and want more than just _lovemaking._

And yeah, Mickey’s got his own shit, too.

When they’re kissing, when they’re fucking, when they’re physical—Mickey likes when Ian gets a little bit _rough_. It’s always been that way, really. He crumbles, sort of; melts under Ian’s touch and Ian’s body. He goes soft, and pliant, and it makes him _want._

And maybe, _maybe,_ that’s why their dynamic works so fucking well. Like when Ian’s in a _mood_ and pushes Mickey into the door, Mickey feels it. When Ian grabs Mickey by the hips, or bends him over with a hand on his neck, Mickey feels it. When Ian pulls Mickey’s hair, shoves him into the bed, _bites him, chokes him, fucks him_ —Mickey fucking _feels it._

As Mickey lies against Ian’s side, thinking, _wanting,_ turned on by his own fucking daydreaming, Mickey decides to try something. 

And so, Mickey whispers, “I love the way you fuck me,” almost absently, as he plays with Ian’s fingers.

He’s been doing it a lot lately, he realizes. It’s not intentional. There’s just something about Ian’s fingers; that soft, familiar feeling of his hands, that makes a warmth settle pleasantly in Mickey’s belly.

It’s not lost on Mickey that there’s a very distinct contrast between his horny ass words and the light touch of their fingertips.

Ian raises his eyebrows, lips curving upwards into a smile. “Excuse me?”

“Fuck off,” Mickey grumbles. He drags his thumb back and forth over Ian’s wedding ring. “You heard me.”

“I heard you,” Ian confirms. “Just—where the fuck did _that_ come from?”

“Take the fuckin’ compliment,” Mickey says insistently. “You’re good at it.”

Ian blinks twice, and it’s cute, and stupid, because it’s obvious that he has _absolutely_ no idea what to say. 

“What—what kinda response are you looking for?” Ian asks after a moment.

Mickey thinks. Shrugs. Raises an eyebrow.

“What kinda response do you wanna give me?”

And Ian looks perplexed, sort of. Like he’s been thrown off his game in an unexpected way. 

Mickey meets his eyes, and he’s doing his fucking best to make it clear that he wants something. He's _trying_ something. And he needs Ian to catch up, to get on the same page.

“I—I guess I can think of a few,” Ian says after a moment, hesitantly. His gaze is a little heated, and he’s on the right track. 

Mickey smirks at him, encouraging. 

“Yeah? Because—” Mickey settles himself on top of Ian’s body, lined up in all the right ways. Ian’s hands wrap around the back of his neck on instinct, like it’s as natural as breathing.

“—You just _know_ how to fuck me, you know?”

Ian nods, sort of. He pushes his hips up against Mickey’s, keeping their eyes locked on each other. 

“Well,” Ian pauses, like he’s thinking. “That’s good, ‘cause I really _do_ love to fuck you.”

Mm, yeah, there he goes. 

Like fucking music to Mickey’s ears. 

“Feels _good,_ when you do,” Mickey coaxes, leans down to Ian’s lips, kissing once. “The way you fuckin’ give it to me. _Hard—”_ Mickey punctuates it, lips parted, speaks it distinctly into Ian’s mouth.

“— _Fast._ You like fuckin’ me hard and fast, Ian?”

Ian exhales sharply, starts to rock his hips up against Mickey. It’s not much, just a slow, rhythmic grind against each other. 

But Ian is hard as fuck, though. And getting harder. 

Ian _likes_ this. He likes it so fucking much, and Mickey wants this. Mickey wants Ian fired up. Mickey wants Ian to take his filthy words and make Mickey feel _exactly_ what the fuck they’re talking about. 

And Mickey’s plan is fucking working. 

“You take it so fuckin’ good,” Ian says, whispering, breathing out little _uh, uh_ sounds against Mickey’s lips, as he rocks harder against him. “Kinda wanna get you fuckin’ moaning for me.”

Oh, _fuck._ Mickey bites his lip to hold back the sound that threatens to escape. When Ian gets going, Ian _really_ gets fucking going.

And he’s fucking hot. And he feels fucking good. 

And his voice is breathy, needy, _erotic._

“ _Yeah,”_ Mickey says, gasping, trying to stay focused. “You like that shit, don’t you? Dick deep inside me, makin’ me moan your fuckin’ name.”

Ian’s hands drag down Mickey’s back, and he wraps his legs around the backs of Mickey’s thighs to press their bodies closer together. 

“Fuckin’ hot, Mick. You like it like that, right?” Ian says, voice becoming more and more breathless. “Gettin’ fucked good and deep, begging me for _more._ ”

“Fuck, _yeah._ Makes me want it _harder._ Always want it fuckin’ harder, Ian.”

“ _Harder,”_ Ian repeats, dragging his nails across Mickey’s ass, pushing Mickey down harder against his body. “Fuckin’ harder, fuckin’ _faster.”_

“Like when you fuck me fast,” Mickey says, panting through the words. “Harder, _faster.”_

 _“Deeper,”_ Ian moans, biting at Mickey’s bottom lip. “Fuck. _Fuck.”_

And then, as thunder rumbles through the night sky, Ian’s resolve _cracks._

He pushes his weight up against Mickey, shoves at his shoulders to roll Mickey onto his back. 

Something coils in Mickey’s stomach— _pleasure, anticipation—_ and then, Ian is all fucking over him, kissing him the way he wants to fuck him; _harder, faster, deeper_. Mickey melts into the mattress, feels the way his body is already threatening to come apart. Fuck, _fuck._

“You want it fuckin’ hard Mickey?” Ian purrs, biting at his ear, sucking at his neck. He grips onto Mickey’s hips, squeezing, _pulling_ Mickey into the right position, caged in beneath his body. 

Yes, _yes, fuck yes._

“ _Ian,”_ Mickey says, cutting off into a moan. His eyes slip closed as Ian grabs onto his thighs, pushing them up against his sides. 

Fuck, Mickey can _feel_ it; the way he’s slipping into a mindset, malleable and submissive. _So, so fucking submissive._ Ian’s got his head spinning, hands pressed hard into Mickey’s sides, using Mickey’s body as leverage.

“You’re _hot_ like this,” Ian mouths around Mickey’s ear, hands moving further down his body, _gripping hard_ around his hips _._ “Needy,” Ian breathes. “ _Fuckin’ needy for me.”_

And he is. He fucking is. Mickey can’t fucking keep quiet, this time, as a moan falls from his lips. “Fuck, _yeah,_ you know I fuckin’ need you.”

With hands holding, gripping, _bruising_ , Ian pulls Mickey up by his hips, pushing inside of him. The added pressure squeezes Mickey’s cock between their bodies, and Mickey moans again, _and again._

 _“Mickey,”_ Ian says, pulling out slowly. “Gonna fuck you so good."Pushes back in, more, _more_. 

“Fuck me, _fuck,_ c’mon,” Mickey says, _begs._

Ian fucking moves, then. 

Pulls out, shoves back in, harder, deeper. 

Does it again, and again, and _again._

And then, they’re _fucking._ Push and pull, give and take, _fucking._ And Ian fucking gives it to him, pulls Mickey’s hips against every single thrust, hits deep inside, brushes his prostate. Over and over and _over and over._

“ _Harder,”_ Mickey says, sort of, as the word gets punched out through another moan. His head falls back, and his mouth falls open. 

“Fuck, Mick, _fuck—_ hang on to me.”

Fuck. Yeah, _okay._ Mickey wraps his arms around Ian’s back, digging his legs in where they’re hooked behind Ian’s thighs. Mickey tries to say something, maybe, but he moans instead, opening his eyes when Ian releases one side of his hips to slide a hand up under his jaw. 

Motherfucking Ian, fucking into Mickey so hard that he’s seeing _stars,_ pulling Mickey’s head up by his jaw, holding him there. It’s _too fucking much_ to look at him right now, because it’s gonna make him fucking _come_ and he doesn’t want to, not fucking yet. 

And then Ian slides his hand down, across the bottom of Mickey’s chin, drags his fingers across Mickey’s throat, _wraps his hand around Mickey’s neck—_ keeps it there. Mickey tips his head back into the pillow again, and just lets Ian _have_ him. Gentle pressure on his neck, hard pressure on his hips, _fucking and fucking and fucking._

Mickey feels it building; the curl in his toes, the fire in his belly. He’s moaning, _whining, breathy,_ broken sounds. His cock is dripping, slippery between the rub of their bodies. Ian’s fucking him into the bed, shoving the headboard into the wall, and yeah— _yeah._

He can barely fucking breathe, as he struggles to _hold back._ He’s so, _so_ close. So deliciously, mind-numbingly close. The cool metal of Ian’s wedding ring is pressing into his neck where Ian’s fingers are squeezing, and it feels like Mickey entire body is fucking _burning_ from the inside out. 

That ring, that fucking _ring._ He’s getting _fucked_ and _bruised_ and _choked_ but it feels like _fucking love_ because it’s Ian’s hands and Ian’s body and it’s Ian, _Ian, Ian. All fucking Ian._

Ian lets go of Mickey’s neck abruptly, releasing the other side of his hips in favor of grabbing his face with both hands, kissing him, tasting him. He’s moaning into Mickey’s mouth, hard thrusts speeding up, hitting Mickey deep, hitting Mickey _just right._

 _“Ian,_ fuck, _right there,_ I—“

And then, all at once, it’s _too fucking much_. 

Another shove of Ian’s hips pushes Mickey hard, _hard_ over the edge. Mickey starts to come apart, muscles clenching, body tensing; and then he’s fucking _coming—_ shouting Ian’s name, shaking, sweating, legs falling open around Ian as he comes and _comes and comes._

He’s fucking soaring, crashing through _good feelings_ and getting fucked through it, so, so fucking good. And Ian is close, Ian is _right there,_ suddenly grabbing frantically for one of Mickey’s hands. He squeezes, panting into Mickey’s mouth, _moaning Mickey’s name,_ and then he’s coming, too.

And when they come together, _fall apart together,_ enraptured in sheens of sweat and breathy moans and sated bodies, Mickey feels _whole._

He hears the rain again, as their heavy breathing begins to settle, closing his eyes as he listens to it pour. It’s mesmerizing, almost, filling Mickey with a sense of calm. 

Thunder booms outside the open window, a crack of lightning flashing through the bedroom, and Mickey smiles as he snuggles beneath Ian’s forearm, draped across his body. 

He could stay like this, probably for-fucking- _ever,_ if he had the option. Ian makes a little noise; just a soft, satisfied hum. And then, unexpectedly, he starts _laughing._

Mickey frowns, whacking gently at Ian’s shoulder. 

“The _fuck_ are you laughin’ at?”

Ian looks at him with hooded eyes and a very, _very_ fucked-out grin on his face. 

“I have _no_ fucking idea,” Ian says, laughing a little harder.

“Laughter ain’t the fuckin’ reaction that anyone wants after sex,” Mickey huffs, but he’s _smiling,_ poking Ian in his side. 

“M‘not laughing _at_ you,” Ian corrects, slipping his arms beneath Mickey’s back and around his waist. He grabs onto him suddenly, rolling them over until Ian’s back is flat on the mattress and Mickey falls onto Ian’s chest with an _uhnf_ sound.

Ian smiles and says, very simply, “Hi.”

“Hi, back.”

“I love you,” Ian tells him, and Mickey’s stomach _flutters._ As if he’s never heard it before. As if he doesn’t hear it every single day. “ _And—_ that was maybe the best sex we’ve ever had.”

Mickey raises an eyebrow, thinking. “The best? Huh.”

“Top five,” Ian says, decidedly. “Or, maybe top three.”

“Definitely top three,” Mickey agrees, exhaling through a laugh. “Think you made my fuckin’ eyes water.”

Ian makes an _oops_ face, scrunching up his nose. “You mean I made you _cry.”_

“ _No,_ bitch,” Mickey argues, although he’s running his fingers gently through Ian’s sweaty hair. “Just—fuckin’ teary. Felt good, _whatever_.”

Ian is smiling again, kind of cocky, like he’s so fucking pleased with himself. 

“ _Shut the fuck up,”_ Mickey grumbles, burying his face into Ian’s neck.

“Hey, I’m messing with you,” Ian says softly, skimming his fingers along Mickey’s back. “Always wanna make you feel good, you know?”

Yeah, Mickey knows. Of course he knows, and he feels _great._ Elated, sleepy, loved, comfy, safe. It’s an endless, ongoing list of _good feelings._ Their legs are tangled together on top of satin sheets, bodies pressed against one another, and Mickey feels fucking great. 

And because Mickey feels _great—_ because Mickey feels warm from love and sex and _Ian,_ he smiles and says, “Goddamn, Gallagher, I’m fuckin’ in love with you.”

Another clap of thunder shakes the cabin, just a little, as the sound of pouring rain grows louder. 

And it’s true, completely true, that rainy nights are peaceful. But as Ian pulls Mickey down by the neck, suddenly, kissing him, loving him, breathing him in—Mickey decides that he really, _really_ loves a good thunderstorm.

* * *

There's no fucking rule that says you can’t make burgers at one o’clock in the morning. 

There’s a patio built off the back of the cabin, enclosed in a screen house and shielding against the rain. It matches the cabin’s rustic theme, with a few warm touches, like twinkle lights strung along its top and sides. It’s dimly lit, with a porch light as the only other source, but it’s enough.

They’re grilling burgers as the rain continues to pour, and Mickey is lying on a comfy couch swing, swaying gently back and forth. He turns his head to look at Ian, watching as he finishes off a beer.

“I’m fuckin’ hungry over here,” Mickey teases, moving up into a sitting position.

“You _are?”_ Ian raises his eyebrows, shrugs his shoulders. “Shoulda told me before—I’m only making enough for myself.”

Mickey rolls his eyes and nods slowly, indulging in Ian’s stupid humor. 

“Make me a fuckin’ burger or I’ll shove your ass outside.”

“ _No,”_ Ian says with a click of his tongue, flipping a patty into the air. “I planned on eating six burgers by myself,” he adds, picking one off the tray to bite into it. 

And Mickey laughs, because Ian is fucking annoying and he’s being a fucking _shithead—_ but Mickey fucking loves him. 

_However,_ love or not, Mickey can be a fucking shithead, too.

He hops off the porch swing and steps beside Ian, folding his arms over his chest. 

“Am I supposed to be intimidated?” Ian asks, reaching down to turn off the grill. He takes another bite of his burger, mumbling something unintelligible when Mickey tries to grab it from his mouth. 

Ian swats at him as he struggles to swallow the rest of it, turning away until Mickey is reaching around his back. 

“Get the fuck off me, asshole,” Ian groans, _laughing._

And then, Mickey pulls him by his shoulders—kicks open the screen door and shoves him out into the rain. 

They’re both instantly _drenched,_ and Mickey is laughing fucking hysterically as Ian finally pushes him off, hair sopping wet and falling into his face. 

“You’re a fucking _dick,”_ Ian says, smiling, voice raised over the sound of the rain. His gray tank top is soaked through, clinging to him, and he brings a hand up to wipe rain uselessly from his face. 

“Serves you fuckin’ right,” Mickey says, squinting his eyes as the rain begins to fall harder. “ _Ah,_ fuck. _"_

Ian throws an arm around Mickey’s shoulders, pulling him back towards the screen house. 

Except. When the door swung closed behind them, the handle, _apparently,_ was locked.

“No fuckin’ way,” Mickey groans, yanking on it twice. “Son of a _bitch.”_

Ian peers into the screen house, frowning, dripping fucking wet everywhere. “I hope you _know—”_ he begins, “—that you’re _really_ not getting any burgers, now.”

Mickey snorts, ignores his comment. “Should I break the fuckin’ screen?”

As if he wasn’t already listed high on Tami’s shit list.

“Nah,” Ian shakes his head, grabbing Mickey by the hand and pulling him forward. “Front door is open, I think.”

And Mickey slips, just slightly, because the grass is soaked and muddy, but Ian catches him—steadies him—one hand gripping onto his arm, the other pulling at his waist. 

A bolt of lightning lights up the sky in the distance, followed by distant thunder, further away than it had been earlier in the night. And Mickey’s not fucking expecting it when Ian pulls him in closer, wraps both arms around his waist, and _kisses_ him. Out of nowhere, water dripping down their faces, clothes completely saturated, just fucking kisses him. Mickey makes a noise; just an unexpected gasp into Ian’s mouth, and Ian is kissing him with everything he fucking has. With parted lips and touching tongues, with passion and love, with the sloppy, wet slide of their mouths mixed with rain.

And when Ian pulls back, holding Mickey against him, he keeps their foreheads pressed together. He’s holding him, just holding him, like he doesn’t want to let him go. 

“ _Mickey,_ ” Ian finally says, a little breathless. “You make me so fucking happy.” Another kiss, softer, calmer, and then, “I’m just—so fucking in love with you.”

God, it’s _so much._ Ian sounds overwhelmed, and Mickey _feels_ it, feels it fucking everywhere, rushing through his veins, making him weak in the knees. He’s so fucking in love and Ian is so fucking in love and they _have each other._ For-fucking-ever, they have each other.

And, not that Mickey is keeping score or anything— _he’s not—_ but this is absolutely, without a doubt, one of the most romantic moments of his life. 

In the pouring rain, with Ian’s arms wrapped around him, breathless from thunder and lightning and _love,_ this is one of the most romantic moments of Mickey’s fucking life. 

**Author's Note:**

> Social media:  
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/ianrightsonly) ♡ [Curious Cat](https://curiouscat.qa/IanRightsOnly) ♡ [Tumblr](https://ianrightsonly.tumblr.com)


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